


Jacob's Stable

by Drakenis



Category: Hellraiser & Related Fandoms, Original Work, Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Big Brother Is Watching You, Dehumanization, Demon Deals, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genetics and radiation don't mix well, Harems, Human/Monster Society, Hybrids, Inspired by Fallout, Inspired by The Cabin in the Woods, Inspired by The Giver, M/M, Other, Science Experiments, Science has made a monster, Social Issues, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakenis/pseuds/Drakenis
Summary: Jacob has always been cautious, cautious and serious as a child, a student, and a young man. He has to be because he is the only chance for his family's salvation. His success could provide an exodus from the poisoned and irradiated town slowly killing them. Upon graduating from university with papers and certification in hand Jacob is shipped out to a pharmaceutical stable known only as The Hive. As a handler it is his responsibility to work with the stable's dangerous residents, to protect the research staff, and ensure successful genetic harvesting. As a son it is his responsibility to keep himself safe and send his wages home to his family. As an individual it will be his responsibility to keep himself sane. The Hive is not what he expected. The stables and all that they do may be a necessary evil but make no mistake; necessary does not mean forgivable.
Kudos: 10





	1. Arrival

(It’s a humble structure from this angle) was his first thought as he approached the worn wooden doors set into an equally worn looking barn structure; (I've seen fancier gates around a market.)

And that was true. It was also true that nothing so far had impressed him along this trip; nothing at all since the transport bus had picked him up to drive him across three territories and one neutral zone. The terrain had all been much the same, farms, fields, mine complexes. An occasional forest broke the monotony of it somewhat as there were still good trees in this section of the commonwealth, but that was hardly worth writing home about. He would write of course, simply not about this. And his own personal thoughts to be contained in his log once his affairs were in order promised to be a dull read. Something along the lines of;

_Woke at 4:15 am, still dark. Couldn’t sleep properly due to nerves. Checked again that all necessities had been packed and were accounted for, and they were. Drank some water and waited for the sunrise. Good sunrise, hazy from the fumes but warm, comforting. Took in the familiar skyline for posterity. Felt nostalgic. Felt nervous._

_Broke fast in the mess for the last time, very few in attendance. Too early. Considered waiting but have already said my goodbyes and it seemed an insecure thing to do. Returned to room and gathered luggage, locked door, surrendered key to dorm staff. They wished me well. Walked to the trolley and rode to the station where the 7:15 was due in an hours’ time. Train was late. Train is often late these days, at least so I’ve heard._

Then it would detail the 4 hour ride in the train, notable only because it had been his second ride ever on such a machine, and the following 8 hours in the bus. Eight hours of fields, woods, mines, farms, nothing to note. Nothing that inspired or caught the imagination. No nothing like that at all. And now he was at the gate of the complex itself which was just wood and old brick, and he'd gotten here by passing a single guard tower and following an old cracked concrete road. It was all terribly underwhelming.

(Am I even in the right place?) He glanced about uncertain and looked to the small page of instruction that had been pressed to his palm before exiting the bus. It made note that a panel of wood within the frame could be slid back. He found it, a small weathered thing that blended all but seamlessly into its environment and pressed a small button installed to signal his arrival. (What if there's been a mistake? Maybe I got on the wrong bus somehow? Or…)

There was always the chance that this was a deliberate sabotage, it happened more than anyone was allowed to say. He might have offended someone on the placement council, or a professor may have slandered him to the assignment committee, he'd heard of that happening with older graduates before. Infamously a student three grades his senior had applied to work in coastal reconstruction but had instead behind closed doors been sent to sewer maintenance. All she'd done was speak her mind to the wrong director. That was all it took. Had he made a similar mistake and forgotten it somehow?

The button gave a ping, the door a small click of welcome, and suddenly the wood yielded under his palm and slid away entirely too smoothly to be wood at all. The sudden glare of high powered light blinded him and as he squinted around his fingers a very different impression formed.

(Holy shit… it’s like a quarantine district!) descending into the ground before him large walls of plexiglass locked off areas from easy access, behind which numerous individuals in bright white coats transferred fluids between machines, read readouts on numerous screens, and documented data that he couldn’t even guess at from where he stood. The air smelled of cleaners and the ground dipped almost just behind the doors threshold into a series of descending steps. “Welcome to the hive,” a generated feminine voice chirped at him, “Please proceed down for security and assignment. Once again, please proceed down for security and assignment. Have a productive day.”

He hesitated a moment, still thrown by the contrast between the weathered abandoned exterior and the modern blazing white before him. But the door was chiming, a sound he knew was a prompt, and he hurried forward so that the door could shut and seal behind him. As he descended the steps he passed underneath rows of rooms, offices, and labs, all looking out into the atrium that he caught glimpses of around the bottoms of floors. Calling it the hive made sense with a layout so open and intense; it was like moving into the hollow of a tree and down the descending structure of a hornets nest.

The steps were plastic, or metal? They made an odd hollow sound underfoot and would likely have been slick if long grey strips of rougher surface didn’t break up their form. Gradually the steps tapered off at a large crescent platform manned by two security stations and what appeared to be a greeter’s desk. Behind the desk a woman was writing something on to a notepad but she looked up at the sound of his footfalls and offered him a wide, practiced smile. Once he’d reached the floor she rose from her seat and came around to greet him with her hand out.

“Mr. Shovelthand-I477b2 I presume? Or do you prefer Jacob?”

Jacob took her hand, shook it. “Jacob is fine, thanks.”

Her smile beamed, perfect lipstick and bright white teeth, and her grip was surprisingly firm given the care she took with her long pink nails which brushed his palm briefly as she pulled her hand away. “Splendid! I’m so glad you arrived safely and in such good time. My name is Gloria, my number is 6331g1. I have the post of official entrance hostess for this complex. I'm sorry to stray from the pleasantries but before we proceed any further I need to turn you over to my associate Rosanne and her trainee Davis. They are in charge of security for this floor. You will have to surrender your shoes, we are stringent about eliminating outside contaminants, as well as any personal effects that our Stable may find unwelcome. Any goods that are confiscated at this time will be stored securely and returned to you before you exit the hive. You understand of course.”

Jacob nodded, it was more or less what he’d been expecting. “Should I head over there then?”

“You should await instruction newbie.” The voice was curt, slightly drawling, and just behind his ear. “or you’re going to get yourself eaten your first week.”

Rosanne, Jacob assumed it was Rosanne, stood almost a head taller than him and her shoulders were every bit as broad as his own under her crisp guard uniform. A shock of red hair was pulled back from her scalp and secured in a bob at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, and hard as onyx. He was struck by the shape of her pupils when they locked gazes, wide black diamonds that contracted sharply under the bright light into an almost perfect line. Fourth generation, he reasoned, maybe fifth if the strain was a strong one. Close enough to the source to pack more than enough punch for most visitors while not being high bred enough for full military service.

“No disrespect intended ma’am,” he offered, “just trying to get the feel for things around here.”

She snorted at him, actually snorted, like a horse. “You aren’t gonna last your first day, let alone week. Are you in a position to reconsider your assignment or did you post someone off and this is your punishment?”

“I..!” Jacob’s brain floundered, he hadn’t been expecting an impromptu interview “I scored top mark’s in comprehension, identification, indication and behavioral patterns, and my field tests were exemplary!”

“Exemplary?” Rosanne bit back. “Are you quoting someone or is that your normal feel good about myself crap?

Jacob had no idea what to do. He tucked his head, fairly certain that it was somehow his gaze that was irritating her. Fourth Generations were notoriously touchy, a strange result of the hormone imbalance that was common between third, fourth, and especially second Generations. From further behind and to his left he heard a soft noise, a snicker. Probably the afore mentioned subordinate Davis, though he didn’t dare turn to look. The sound only grew louder though, then Gloria joined in, and then Rosanne herself joined with a laugh far more pleasant than her voice.

“Okay newby that’s enough cringing. A little poking is good for you. What you’ll work with in here will do a lot worse than that.” She motioned back toward a thick metal frame supporting numerous monitors, a handful of boxes, and a screening device. “Move to the station so we can search you and get this over with.” She moved aside to let him pass and fell in behind as he did. “There’s several rules you need to be aware of at all times in this facility. These rules override color coding and levels, they are active in every area without exception. Violating any of these tenants places not only yourself but those around you in jeopardy; there’s a zero tolerance policy for it. And just a heads up, if you dig yourself into a hole no one’s digging you out of it. The crew may sink man by man but the ship stands. Is that clear?”

“Yea ma’am.” Jacob took off his shoes and put them in the offered box Davis held, and stepping into a pair of plastic shells in their place. He jerked a bit under Davis's following thorough and none too gentle frisking.

“Rule number one, you obey the signs. If it’s a no stop area you don’t stop for anything. If it’s marked as a safe zone you trust that area with your life.” Rosanne cocked her hip as she pulled Jason’s jacket from his back and emptied out his pockets. “When you see an individual with a silver badge you do as directed. When you see an individual with a gold badge you do as directed and protect them with your life, and if a stud tells you to do anything at all you disregard both those badges and comply short of killing other personnel. Is that clear?”

“Do the studs have that much authority?” Jacob asked, he couldn’t stop the surprise from leaching into the question. From what he had read about these things power like that was far from comforting. “Is that safe?”

“We don't hand out positions like candy here.” Rosanne’s tone was curt. “Personnel know better than to put themselves in a position to have trouble with the studs. But they are just as subject to that sink or swim policy. If they put themselves in that kind of danger saving then, or trying to, will only make matters worse.” She returned his coat with the contents intact. “Rule number three, go nowhere you are not authorized to go. Rule number four, take nothing from one zone to the next without permission. Little items can make big messes. And rule number five, make note of any rules pertaining to the level you are on and comply. Do you understand?” she arched an eyebrow at him and waited, much as his professor for general anatomies had when a lecture was concluding.

“Yes ma’am, I understand.” Jacob also understood the question, just as his professor's inquiry had been, was rhetorical.

“He's clean but bulk luggage still needs to be sorted.” Davis transferred Jacob's bags into two of the plastic trays. “Sorting can take time but you can expect your things to be scrubbed and sent to your room once one is assigned to you.” His eyes rose from the task and met Jacob's own; they were green, fiercely green, and also vertically thinned at the pupil. Despite this they were not unkind. “You will be issued appropriate work clothes further into the hive as well as your personal badge. Those items are not to leave the facility and are never to be lent to another person, coworker or otherwise. Violation of that rule results in immediate board review and likely full termination.”

“Yes sir.” Jacob had expected that, but hearing all of this in person, on location, was starting to drill home how real the situation was. He found that his hands had gone clammy and his palms were damp with sweat. “I don’t imagine I’ll be leaving the facility very often, my work grant only extends to cover a year but my hours need to be consistent it it’s to be considered for renewal.”

“Only a year?” Davis asked, his eyes narrowed and his expression pinching with confusion. “What only takes a year in…” his voice fell off as his expression shifted into stoic blankness “You're a handler then.”

The mood had shifted. Jacob saw that same blankness had slid onto Rosanne as well, only Gloria remained smiling benignly from behind her greeter’s desk, her hands folded peacefully across her lap. He looked between the two security officers and considered his wording. “That is what I’ve been trained in, yes. Are handlers unpopular in the hive?”

“Not unpopular, but unlucky.” Rosanne looked to Gloria and made a small gesture. The greeter nodded and moved to a side table where a cup and pitcher waited. “And the only reason a new handler is ever brought in is that an old handler has been terminated.” Rosanne turned her full attention back to Jacob. “That means you're here to replace master handler Gilbert. Heard there'd been an accident, wasn't sure though. But here you are.” She sighed. “Damn shame. Gilbert was one of the best. Damn shame.”

Before Jacob could ask anything further on the subject Gloria was at his side, hand on his shoulder for his attention, tray outstretched in the other.

“Tea?” she offered, “We understand that security clearings are a hassle but they are vital to the safety and success of the program. We do appreciate your patience with this process. And I will be happy to answer further questions are we proceed to uniform distribution and the next security level.” She led him away from Rosanne and Davis, leaving his luggage in the bins and his shoes who knows where. “We know it all sounds a bit overwhelming at first, but rest assured within your first week all of this will become very much second nature to you. The hive will start to feel like home, and all homes have their rules, yes?” and with that she indicated they were to proceed further down, another staircase waiting. “Now do you have questions for me?”

“Why was handler Gilbert terminated?” it slipped out, the right question but the wrong wording and too early in the conversation to be subtle. He knew it when he saw her eyes widen then tighten, a quick line of activity flickered across her jaw like a suppressed spasm. The smile never wavered. Whatever answer she offered him he knew that face. It was the face of the inconvenient truth, the terrible gnawing truth. It was a promise of a reprieve where none was possible, the shaking of ration stamps that a clerk knew perfectly well would never be honored, the face of a doctor recommending hope. He knew.

“I'm sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the termination of facility employees. That is part of the security protocols on which you will be briefed.” Gloria motioned to another security check gate, they were increasing in frequency the further into the hive they descended. “Let’s get your ID badge issued yes?”

… …. … …. …

Jacob thought that all things considered introductions could have gone much worse.

The human staff at the facility were brisk, businesslike, strikingly professional; at least during a first meetings. The primary physician was human, as was the head if resources and the party involved in distribution of necessities and janitorial duties. The head chef was human, the head of human resources was, fittingly, human. And his immediate superior, the head groom of the stables, was human. But many of the personnel he'd seen were hybrids, very clear hybrids.

It had all of his alarm bells ringing. A high presence of hybrids was typical only in military service, no exceptions. The public remained understandably wary of the hybridization initiative and, though it was necessary, the issue remained contentious. You needed hybrids present when there was the risk of dangerous engagement, when there may be terrorist strikes or assassination attempts, or for war. You did not need them for medical research.

But they were here, in force. That couldn't be good. What had his studies gotten him into? Where the hell was he?

What was the hive?

He sat in his new quarters, temporarily apparently, at a small piecemeal desk that was still better quality than any furniture he'd ever owned, and began constructing a letter home. He'd promised his mother that he would write as soon as he'd arrived. He just had no idea what to say to her now, things had already flown above and beyond his prior expectations. And he was certain his letter would be read before it left facility grounds and withheld if the contents were considered damaging. He'd need to consider his wording carefully. He tapped the pen absently into his palm, took a quiet breath, considered what was important. He began;

_My dearest Mother,_

_I arrived safely after an uneventful trip at my intended destination. I cannot share details, as I warned you would be the case, but I can tell you that the staff have been kind to me and my rooms, which are temporary apparently, are very comfortable. I say temporarily because my job will require me to move again once I am assigned to the individuals with whom I am to work, and they have specific living arrangements here as you might expect. I am nervous but also quite excited. From what I have seen so far I must imagine there are few facilities better designed and I’m quite lucky to have gotten this placement. I can say that my wages are more than fair, and that they have a solid system in place for transferring funds back to the commonwealth, so you can expect some help very soon._

_I have everything I need here, please don’t worry about sending me more clothes or spending the money on any shipping. I have already been fitted for five new sets of shirt and pants. Five! Do not worry for me, tell Janice and Susan that I miss them already, and tell father the same. I hope to be given leave around the holiday so that I can join you all for the reclamation celebration. I am hopeful that this year we may even be able to light fireworks at the river. Don't make that a promise, but I think the odds are good for it._

_I will write often, and I hope to hear from you as well but don't worry about it if you can't._

_Jacob_

He sat back, considered his message. He imagined his mother with her hair tied up from the heat, bandana damp but eyes bright, smile warm. He saw her in his minds eye thank the courier and call for her sisters to join her. He saw them crowding around the table as his mother read the message, and the relief on their faces at the promise of money on the way. His father would still be in the mine and wouldn't hear the letter until he returned around dawn, but mother would stay up to read it to him. And he pictured his father, his weathered face warmed with a thin smile, his swollen hands folded over his knee, scolding his wife that he didn’t need to be read to but grateful all the same. His eyesight was worse every year, the dark working conditions and the mine dust taking their toll.

He could see them all, his family, and felt the weight of their expectations on his shoulders. They had relied heavily on the student grants he'd received in the program and they would need him now more than before. He'd heard the whispers of it before he left that taxes were climbing again and rent with them. But he would keep his family afloat, he had to. He couldn't fail them.

(I won't let them down, and that means no accidents.) He'd known better than to ask again about the former head handler but he saw the staff reactions when his job was mentioned. Whatever had happened to Gilbert had been good gossip before he arrived, and with the way everyone was clamming up… it was something particularly bad. Had a stud gotten him on a bad day? Was it provoked or unprovoked? There was always a risk with studs, always. They couldn't help it. The results of that initial hybridization always included heightened aggression. First generation studs were some of the most dangerous people in the world. If Gilbert had forgotten that then Rossane was right and so was the rule, helping him would have been extremely dangerous.

Now Gilbert was crippled or killed, couldn't have been anything less, and he might have to work with the very stud who had done it. Almost nothing would result in the termination of a stud. So much could go wrong with first generation hybrids that great investment went into both their creation and upkeep, so to kill one? Unthinkable. They were far too valuable. People sadly weren’t.

(Tomorrow I meet the stable.) He sighed, leaned back in his chair. (Then I can see for myself how bad it is.)

He'd had experience with studs before of course, it had been a vital part of the program, but every stable was different. His experiences were all based in the small stable located in the networking city of Breisk where his university was. But there had only been five in that facility, much smaller than this stable was certainly, and only one of those five had been a first generation. The other four had been 2nd generation and were selected because of their strong other genetic background. Interacting with them hadn't been all that different from interacting with particularly arrogant soldiers. For the most part they had been a level-headed bunch, eager to talk about events outside the center and the girls who visited them. One was a prankster, though not maliciously, and another had been of avid fan of chess. Jacob had played many games with him in the stud’s downtime and lost most of them. The ribbing for those losses had been spirited and inspired and he’d quickly gained a nickname in that stable as the “mystery student.” After all, they’d crowed, he wasn’t there for his balls, and clearly he had no brains, so what he brought was a mystery!

He suspected the stable at The Hive would be very different. This was a much larger operation requiring more studs and a far larger stable complex. In all likelihood there weren’t any second generations to be found here, the population could be entirely first generation. That was a sobering thought. The only stud with whom he hadn’t been able to work in Breisk was their first generation stud Antov, or Stud-4473-Erk-12. Antov was psychotic, vindictive, predatory. His moments of lucidity were brief and his episodes frequent. He was prone to neurotic habits such a scratching pacing and striking at the walls of his stall. He bit as easily as he spoke and more than one handler had felt the sting of his teeth. If his hands weren’t restrained they would have felt far worse.

Jacob had hated every moment of the time he’d spent in Antov's company. There was a horrible feeling about the stud like an impending storm, it made the hairs all over his body stand in agonized anticipation. The pits of his eyes were haunting and so black his sockets looked empty in all but the brightest lights. Eyes like those promised terrible things. Jacob knew without fail that every time he’d spoken to Antov the stud had been contemplating his death. An entire stable of that was madness and the last thing in the world he'd hoped for. But the money was good. They'd given him the official figures at last and it was very, very good. So whatever he encountered, and however the studs behaved, he would do his best to stay alive and send wages back to his family.

There really was no choice. Not for the scientists and handlers who worked at the hive, not for the studs who spent their lives figuratively and literally serving the greater good, and not for him. No choice at all.


	2. Generations

Jacob dreamt that night, dreamt in curling tangential sequences like foggy memories from the past. Within his dreams he walked down the street where he had lived until he was 12. Mud squelched between asphalt shards harvested from the old decrepit highway, now turned to gravel, and the drip and stink of the drain made the air hazy above the channels. The road was always wet with runoff from the nearby hills, from the mine. So he walked the street as he had in his youth, very carefully. He had to work hard to keep the stinking muck from his shoes. Even the children in his town knew better than to play in the runoff. Those who failed to learn the lesson soon stopped coming out to play.

He passed by the staples of his community; the rations dispensery, the tailor's shop, the smithy and its parlor of picks, hooks and other mining gear, the assessing station where his fate had been sealed, and the empty lots between tenants that held the communities emergency ration gardens. He walked between rows of raised beds. Scant herbs and poorly vegetables with yellow leaves grew beside shriveled tomatoes and reedy carrots, all surviving somehow on carefully rationed water and prayers.

The rows of plants gave way to rows of old creaky wooden seats. He was in his assessing station, and he was eight again, and his assessor was looking at him fondly as he’d often done. “Great things my boy.” He said. “I expect you’ll do great things. And who would have thought it? You certainly didn't get this mind from your father, always was somewhat slow. It's a gift you've got. Never waste it, understand? Never waste your mind.” But he wasn’t his childhood assessor anymore, suddenly he was she, and she was the professor from his first class at university. He’d never forget her beakish nose and tightly strung voice. She flitted about in front moving from seat to seat, looking at the papers of her students.

“Quickly now, quickly!” She scolded. “No one wants to see your work! Answer if you know it, leave it blank if you don’t. This isn’t the hard part. Go with your gut! Be honest! You aren’t going to fool anyone here we’ve seen it all before.”

He’d often dreamt about that test. He’d hated it. It asked the most bizarre series of questions he’d ever seen compiled together anywhere, and some of those were logical, and some of them had seemed anything but. There’d been one about cheese. Cheese! And what smells it produced when it was starting to rot. He’d been certain he’d be thrown out by the seat of his pants after finishing because he’d known so few of the answers. He looked down in dread fully expecting to see that awful test but there was no test before him, just a familiar clipboard with a series of genetic sequences.

He couldn’t read them though he knew he could; that at last woke him. Woke him no later than 3:35 AM. Damn.  
  


* * *

  
Everything was set to a routine in the hive. Routine was safe. It could be trusted. He would come to like it, at least that’s what everyone said as he met them. Routine would turn this complex into a home.

Jacob had some doubts, but the idea itseft was anything but new. He was accustomed to schedules as there had always been plenty of them in his program. 6:00 wake up, by 6:15 have teeth brushed and clothing for the day prepared. By 6:30 be showered, present for breakfast at 6:45. Receive early morning instructions and finish breakfast by 7. That was basic, he could do that in his sleep. But where typically the rest of his day would be divided between classes, assigned library time, and direct interaction time in the stable, at the hive his first week would be less predictable. There was a list of code words that he needed to memorize, new equipment with which to become acquainted, and security drills to be performed.

Jacob took to all of this well enough and gained some small satisfaction with how easily most of it came to him. And he felt rather smart truth be told in his new suit of official clothes with his badge, keycard, and a brand new pair of high quality shoes. They certainly helped to conceal his poor sleep cycle with their crisp lines and tight stitching. He’d never looked so utterly divorced from how he felt; perfectly pressed on the outside and walking on eggshells internally. But the morning was easy, acclimating to procedures would be the least of his long term concerns, so he managed gracefully enough and without drawing unwanted attention.

Admittedly a great deal of the equipment he’d been introduced to was very strange, especially the work harnesses. And it wasn’t because he was unaccustomed to seeing restraints which were typical tech for any stable. Studs could get rough so it was important to have measures in place by which they could be controlled. Even the best tempered stud had a tendency under pressure to become, well… studish. But Jacob had worked with studs in restraint before and could not imagine when some of this gear would be necessary. Harnesses were usually made of leather and rope, the hives materials ranged from bent steel to fiber mesh, and chain! The kind of force that a stud would need to apply to warrant such overzealous gear was laughable; was he working with men or cattle? It didn’t add up.

Where the harnesses were overzealous to the extremes on the inverse side of things personal safety was absurdly low. This was a facility with no shock collars, not even electric batons! Usually a handler would be giving a button capable of signaling any collar within nearby range to deliver a measured shock if required. This was safer but more expensive than the baton option. Jacob had taught that this was standard safety equipment in all stable facilities and the hive clearly had the money for such measures. But when he inquired into their absence he was informed that, even if they’d had such tech on hand, they wouldn’t use it because it wouldn’t be safe. The entire point of the collar system was safety! How could the safety equipment not be safe? If handlers weren’t being given even the bare minimum for their own protection was it any wonder people were getting hurt? What was a handler supposed to do if a stud lost control?

These were realistic concerns, practical concerns, and the ease at which they were waved aside astounded him. This was a high-tech facility, a research hub with an enormous inbuilt pharmaceutical complex. One didn't have to be brilliant to recognize that the work done in the hive impacted the majority of the surrounding region and that what was accomplished here was ferried directly back to the capital. Thousands of jobs and hundreds of thousands of lives relied on the work done in the hive. With so much at stake how could they afford for security to be so relaxed? He’d been given an official regulation book and there were more rules in place to monitor and control employee behavior then there were in place to control the stable complex itself. Why?

He would ask when he deemed it appropriate to do so, but he knew that day wouldn’t be today. He’s overstepped already by asking about the handler he was replacing the night before and that wouldn’t have been forgotten yet. A smart man kept his head down until he understood the tone of the space he occupied, and a wise man kept his head down long afterwards while asking his questions. Even a fresh employee had only so much good will to burn before they ran out.

As the afternoon concluded, and lunch with it, Jacob took stock of the person he’d been assigned to shadow for his first 48 hours on the stable floor. His name was Ferguson, or “Fergus,” which Jacob would not call him, and he was another hive handler with seniority over most of the stable though not the head handler himself. Ferguson was a character by any definition of the word.

The man was massive, easily 6ft 10 inches tall and 300 pounds, most of which was clearly muscle. He had a thick core, thick arms, and an overall build that made Jacob think of the wrestlers on pots in history books. On him the practical and smart handler uniform looked like a stretched out set of doll clothes. His hair was cropped short In military fashion and shot through with grey. His eyes were small, blue, and hard, but his mouth was expressive and even friendly. So being in his company was that interesting culmination of unease and familiarity all at once. He had large hands with thick swollen joints which pared with the distinct curve to the back of his neck told Joseph he was a calcicrosis survivor. Yet another medical condition that processing the blood immunities of studs and stables had helped to treat. Evidence for the need to continue with the research, costs be damned.

Calcicrosis syndrome was a killer. He'd had medical training and seen the x-rays of sufferers whose bones had broken down and hollowed themselves out as their bodies created superfluous new bone growth over vertebra and joints. The added mass of the growth led to reduced mobility, the compressing and enclosing of arteries, and decimated the nervous system. Spines grew into sails as tibias shattered like ceramic under a person’s own weight. The gene and hormone therapies corrected the underlying genetic problem stopping growth, and surgery could remove disfiguring growths so long as detection was early. And so long as the patient could afford it. If not it was far from the way Jacob hoped to die.

Issues such as calcicrosis were fortunately rare in developed cities and the inner commonwealth but were often found in those who lived and worked on the outskirts, particularly in mines or irrigation. Anything that could bring a person in contact with tainted water or soil had risks. There had been a massive push in the last 10 years to perform regular health inspections in the outskirts so as to best treat and collect data on where the issue was most prominent. Progress was being made but for many it would be too little too late. And so, as with so many other projects, the work continued.

They did not discuss Ferguson’s disease or survival. Jacob was not going to start that conversation and though Ferguson likely knew Jacob has spotted the signs he wasn't volunteering anything. Besides there were more present and more pressing issue to discuss.

“We get the trays here at this station.” Ferguson indicated a small closed off area with a jerk of his hand. “The kitchens’ located elsewhere of course, separate from ours. Feeding times are listed and trays are labeled but always double check. We've got a few glass stomachs in this group and if they get the wrong food there's hell to pay with interest. They sent it down the dumbwaiter, we move it from the delivery section and into the individual stalls. There is no group feeding in the hive, not ever. If studs are visiting then any guests have to be asked to leave before food can be put down.”

“But they do visit?” Jacob asked. “Even each other's stalls?”

“Some of em yes,” Ferguson was already moving away to a chart on the wall. “There’s a communal area where approved studs can be, though we try to limit the number using it at any one time to under five. It’s rare for them to want that much company anyway, territorial and all that, but a handful do room visits. There’s a list of those too.” He looked back, expression grave. “Some studs do not leave their stall, not ever. It’s indicated on their doors. Three red triangles, one inside the other. Never open one of those doors without a team and an anesthesiologist on hand. We collect what’s needed in the stall and they are sedated and restrained during the process. This applies to cleaning as well.”

Jacob nodded , he understood perfectly. “I have to assume those studs are separate from the badge system if they can't leave their stalls. Are those first generation predominantly? To be honest the impression I had yesterday was there likely weren't any second generation studs in this stable.” He watched Ferguson stop dead in his tracks, shock evident across his face. “Is… is that not right?”

“First generation?” His expression turned from surprised, to irritated, to incredulous. “Gods boy what have they told you? First generations don't cause trouble here, we've got 12 of em and they're the best behaved of the bunch! They do most of the visiting! I'm talking about origin studs, generation 0. That’s what you need to look out for!”

Jacob's response, whatever he'd been preparing to cover his ignorance, died on his lips. His mind went blank.

What had he said?

He must have misunderstood.

“Generation 0?” his voice sounded strange to him. “You house Generation 0 here?”

Ferguson eyed him, there was something of pity to his squint and the soft line of his mouth had tightened. “Let’s have a sit shall we? I think before I show you any more of the systems we've got cause to review the basics.”

Jacob said something in assent, though he had no idea and likely would never remember what, and followed Ferguson out of the tray area.

They made their way to an empty observation room with a connecting enclosed platform. The walls rose about them in thick shatterproof glass that looked down over a small interior garden, all green grass and tender shrubs. Jacob could see three male forms in that space. One was painting, painting! While the other two played mahjong near the wall. All studs. All first generation. He knew that now. But what he didn’t know… what he never imagined he'd know…

“I suppose I should start with some history aye?” Ferguson tapped a small table set into the wall, drawing Joseph’s attention back. “Don't know what they were thinking turning you over to me before Felicia, she usually does this bit, but her or me it has to be done. So let’s ground you in some common knowledge and go from there.” He pressed a button on his top pocket and informed the voice that answered that he’d need additional time today with the new handler, and to call in his second if he didn’t report in again within the hour. Then he looked back to Jacob. “Let me get this done, and you can ask your questions at the end. Fair?”

Jacob nodded. “I can do that.”

“There’s hope for you yet I suppose.” Ferguson leaned forward, clasped his thick jointed hands. “Right, basics first. We’ll start with the Return when after a great war we came back to resettle the northern continent. Back then there was so much poison in the water and dirt that grain burned and water steamed. There was nowhere else to go so we stayed, but there wasn't a way to go on either. This is when we first encountered the “others" as they've been dubbed, those we now call generation 0, or the great unknown generation. They were immune to the poison. You've probably heard all the theories behind that; that they're mutated men trapped behind when the bombs fell, or the descendants of another species that had lived alongside us in hiding, or even that they're aliens!” He waved that away. “All crazy talk of course. You'll learn pretty quickly what they are when you talk to one. But they could survive and we couldn't, so we began the genetic gambles that lead to the hybridization initiative and the stable complexes.”

“People found out pretty quickly that harvesting the cells of the others and transplanting them didn't work. Without fail our systems rejected any gene’s spliced so instead of passing along immunities there were instead mass fatalities. In terms of antibodies and tissue we were at that time fundamentally incompatible. Theories vary on how the first hybrid occurred, whether it was intentional experiment or accident, but the discovery that we could hybridize with the others led to the first true subject and the first viable harvested immunities. And it all slid from there like mud on a hill. Now we've got stables and programs all over the commonwealth making immunities and helping with that other problem…” Ferguson cleared his throat. “But it all comes back to the Others and the hybridization initiative. This stable is primarily dedicated to that, creating first generation Studs for genetic scraping and further disillusion as sires of second generation studs.”

“We’re the only facility in the commonwealth to house gen 0’s now incidentally. The Subhive was phased out almost 20 years ago. We produce the entirety of the first generation studs used in the other stables from our stock and it’s those individuals we're working with, you and me. There's other boys to handle the firsties.” Ferguson smiled. “Lucky us eh?”

Jacob was sure he looked terrible but he couldn’t focus on that now, putting on a brave face was inconceivable. His mind was racing back through every paper he'd written, every evaluation completed, every hour spent in a stable as he desperately struggled to grasp how he'd ended up here. He hadn’t been the best in his class. He hadn’t made any powerful friends or enemies, not that he knew of. Why was he here?

Why the hell was he here?

“I’ve never even been able to study on the subject of gen 0.” It was all he could say, or think, “any books on others are restricted by law and viewing those texts without permission is punishable by--"

“Gods boy I know all that. Do you think I’m stupid?” Ferguson shook his head. “We aren't so different, you and me. I've got experience on you is all. Why the hell do you think I mentioned Felicity? She's got a metric ton of crap for you to read and review. I'm supposed to show you the in’s and outside down here, the homework is her job and so’s the history refresher. As is I’m telling her she owes me credit for doing her job today. But I know damn well no one knows when they get here, we all learn in house so to speak.” He reached out and slapped Jacob's shoulder. Though it was friendly the force of it nearly pitched him out of his chair. “Tighten your core and calm your tits boy, you'll be fine! Just stay close to me, listen to what I say, and do the reading Felicity gives you later.”

“Do we get to leave?” he whispered it, didn't have enough air to support the words. “Do they ever let us leave?” Jacob’s mind raced; the ease of sending money home, the level of security, the classified information so casually mentioned, and the fate of the handler he was replacing. “My god we're never getting out of here are we?”

Ferguson sighed. “You’re green as grass aren’t you? Course we can leave. What, you think they're stopping your mail? Think they’ve sent word you died on the way? Think your kin’s planning your burning ceremony as we speak?”

“…I…” Jacob felt nauseous suddenly, reached out for the support of the table.

“What in the hell? Pull yourself together boy! You look like fresh laundry!” Ferguson shook him, glared into his line of sight. “Don't make me deal with a mess from you on the first day! You listen to me, acting that way is a sure path to a really bad time for you here. These studs are hyper vigilant, they smell fear, you understand? And they hate it boy, actively hate it. Makes then squirrely and pissy and hell on earth to work with. No one wants that, shit like that gets good handlers hurt and worse.” he gave him another shake, “Now you listen to me; you're my charge till you stop being so green ya? And I’m good at my job, the best. I love my job. So I’m not gonna let a stud break you on my watch but I expect you to pull your weight!”

Jabob swallowed back bile, nodded. He didn’t trust his mouth open.

“Good. Glad we've got that settled.” Ferguson sat back, eyed him, clearly assessing for some manner or indicator. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me this time. Okay newbie, change of plans. I’m gonna introduce you to AZ200949 for the day, goes by Samson. We're gonna get your feet wet, get you doing because clearly you can't handle the thinking right now. You do know how to manage a stall yes? And the stud using it?”

Jacob nodded. “Yes sir.” He managed. “Is Samson a first--"

“Course he is,” Ferguson snorted, “can't put you in with any 0 to start except…” He paused, brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “No, not even him. He'd get one whiff of you and that'd be that. But Samson's good to little green kids fresh from school, don't be an ass and he'll treat you right.” Ferguson pushed off of the table before them to stand and looked down at Jacob. “Let’s go meet your new best friend behind bars.”


	3. Samson and Friends

Samson's stall was located fairly close to the hub of the floor. A clipboard with the stud’s schedule for the day rested in a metal wall slot, and beneath it another chart displayed medical data gathered that morning including how recently he had been harvested, when his teeth were last cleaned, and the result of a weekly physical. He wouldn't be eligible to give blood for another 24 hours, and his ankle had been damaged earlier in the week removing him from several other eligibilities. Standard data in a familiar clinical format. There was the familiar symbol denoting that this was a first generation stud. But there was an additional line, one he'd never seen before on a first generation’s paperwork. There was a line for the identification number of the sire.

And there was a number in it. Short. Succinct. Sired by #12.

“Now there is one thing you need to know about Samson.” Ferguson held his Id badge up to the scanner on the door. “He can be a bit--"

The rest of his sentence was obliterated by the explosion of personality that came out as soon as the door cleared its locks. A hand slammed forward into the gap, keeping it from closing, and another shot out to take Ferguson's hand, still holding his key card, and shook it vigorously.

“Fergus! It's been weeks you bastard, where have you been?” the hands and energy belonged to a 6ft tall highly androgynous male with sharp ears, bright yellow eyes, and a smile that could light up Jacob's whole neighborhood during a blackout. His voice was decidedly masculine but lilting, almost musical, and he had honest to god dimples at the edges of that massive grin.

“Samson you’re gonna break my keycard!” Ferguson barked, but he quickly brought his free hand around to rest over Samson’s hand and shake back. “Had a leave of absence, visited some old boys from company 4. They been feeding you right or have you bribed someone again?”

“Don't start on that, I’m too pleased to see you to ruin it.” Samson's smile pulled into a pout. “Always the diet with you Fergus! It gets old.” Then his left eye, only the left, moved to regard Jacob. “But where are my manners, you've got a friend with you and here we are bickering about sweets.” He released Ferguson and turned fully to look down at Jacob. “I've never smelled you around here before, I’m sure of that. Who are you and where do you come from?”

Jacob stood a little straighter. “Greetings Samson, I'm handler #846—”

“He's Jacob, and he’s a green as grass newbie they just shipped out to us.” Ferguson interjected, “I think you can see why I brought him over here.”

“I think I can.” Samson’s tone was smug. “Poor little lost lamb in a factory full of wolves. Gilbert’s replacement, I assume? He looks competent, like he can take it on the chin, so he has that going for him. And he’s got good eyes, he’ll need them. But you’ve caught me on an off-day for kids Fergus so I can’t really play with your new pet. They’ve got my afternoon so booked it’s almost double booked, it’s that time of year after all.”

“We won’t be intruding,” Ferguson replied, “just shadowing, getting him accustomed to things here. I just know if he tripped over his feet you wouldn't tear his head off.”

Samson nodded absently as his eyes, sharp as laser pointers, scanned Jabob over with an intensity he was all too familiar with. Antov had been equally intense.

The overall package was very different however. The gaze Samson possessed was much like Antov’s had been because it held the knowledge of what harm he could do. Antov had never been boisterous however, had barely spoken, and Jacob had never seen him express a recognizably human emotion. In a fight Jacob would expect Antov to snap Samson like a twig. Most studs were hyper masculine and Samson was almost effeminate. Even the stud’s height wasn't particularly impressive. But he was a first generation that the hive retained and maintained instead of sending off, and that had to mean something. Even if the mannerisms confused him Jacob trusted what those eyes had to say.

They were bright and owlish in the way they reflected the light, sharp yellow discs like ancient bronze shields. They were distracting. They were designed to be distracting. Jacob could see someone getting caught in that glance and completely failing to notice what the stud was doing with his hands. Perhaps that was the trick. And Studs could be stronger than they looked.

“Yes… good eyes on him, but no tact.” Samson's smiled twisted at the corner of his jaw, too thin now to be completely friendly. Instead he looked sly and satisfied like a cat in the sun. “I don't mind the attention Jacob but some of my associates… well, they aren't as friendly.”

Jacob swallowed, lowered his eyes to avoid conflict but keep the overall profile of the stud in sight. “My apologies, I appreciate the advice. I've never seen yellow eyes before.”

Samson laughed, “Really? Half the stable has these! They're a dominant trait so you'll be bored of them before too long. Oh to be new and excited by colors again!” He himself looked as giddy as a child at reclamation. “Wait till you meet Dagor and get a glimpse of his magentas, lucky bastard. He’s so proud of them that it would be annoying if they weren’t honestly impressive. And Solomon has a red so inconsistent it’s almost a hazel variant. My own sire has some very interesting flecking but you’ll see that for yourself soon enough. Though if you are Gilbert’s replacement you’ll mostly--”

“Do you speak with each other?” Jacob couldn’t help but ask it and immediately kicked himself for cutting the stud off. That was dangerously rude, but this was all unheard of in his understanding and it had come out despite himself. “I apologize Samson.”

The stud shook his head, “Green indeed. Keep that enthusiasm and this once I’ll accept your apology. As to your question, no. My sire feels the same way for me that he’s felt for all of my brothers; particularly disinterested if not outright hostile.” Samson sniffed dismissively. “In his eyes I’m a threat to his harem because who wouldn’t want their sire’s leftovers? Disgusting. I don’t hold it against him of course, he can’t help it, but it can make sharing this facility particularly draining when he’s feeling particularly proud.” He shared a glance with Ferguson and the two chuckled. “You haven’t seen true peacocking till you’ve met him, you’ll see. And you can thank me for the warning later.”

“I…” Jacob was lost. Utterly lost. “Peacocking?”

“I see a demonstration is in order.” Samson waved his hands at Ferguson. “Move Fergus you’re in the way of my strut.”

“Oh no, please, please…” Ferguson looked like a man in lineup who had to be still and feared he’d laugh. “Don’t do it Samson it’s too much, it’s just painful, it’s just not right.” Even his voice was nervously wavering between authoritative and smothered. He moved however, and did so with the countenance of the doomed.

“This is peacocking!” Samson declared. He made a flourish of motion with his hands as if to wave them both aside and then began the most aggressively sexual walk Jacob had ever seen. Weaving side to side with each step, pelvis swaying and posterior rocking fearlessly, he tossed his head up and his shoulders rolled back at each pace but his hands and arms alternated between apparently praising the ceiling lights and praising his own crotch.

Jacob choked on his own spit. Ferguson surrendered with a bark of laughter as sudden and unexpected as a fart.

“Behold my glory!” Samson proclaimed, far too much emphasis on ‘glory.’ “Do you not all want a piece of this!?” Was it better or worse that somehow the stud sounded completely serious while performing this flamboyantly? “My manhood is the envy of nations! It is the pride of all who behold it! All ye of the lesser dick look upon it and despair!”

Samson accompanied that declaration with some no nonsense gyrating and Jacob wondered both when he’d started laughing and if he’d be able to stop. Faintly he could hear the watchers in the monitor room two hallways away all but hooting. Ferguson was cursing under his wheezing, swearing almost defensively and motioning at Samson like he could ward the evil away. Samson’s grin was as wide and sharp as a crescent moon and he beamed at their helpless amused discomfort.  
  


They were all three distracted at the sound of someone clapping loud and slow. Down the hall another handler continued the applause as he made his way to them though, from that expression, he wasn’t amused at all.

He was a short man at barely 5 ft. from Jacob’s quick estimation, and wiry. His face dominated by sharp even bangs and a large and sleek pair of glasses with bright silver frames. According to his ID badge he was Markus Litterstep, which immediately kindled a sense of kinship in Jacob. They’d likely had similar backgrounds with a last name like that. When he reached them he looked at Ferguson first and the larger man, still laughing, shrugged sheepishly at him. Then he looked to Samson but Samson was anything but cowed.

“Here at last Markus! Did you enjoy my tribute to my sire?”

“Is that what that was?” Markus adjusted his glasses with his left hand, his eyes beneath the frames grey as slate. “Forgive my confusion but as your sire is four hallways from here I assumed you were ‘tributing’ yourself.”

Samson’s grin never wavered. “What’s that phrase everyone tosses around? What’s good for the sire is good for the son? Just because it was intended as a tribute doesn’t mean it’s inaccurate, which you know. First hand. At eye level.”

“Yes yes yes, your enormity shall live on in ink and our hearts. But not in the hallway.” Markus’s disapproving chide was clearly well practiced. “You don’t have time to be fooling around today impressing the new help. The new help who shouldn’t be interacting with one of my studs regardless as he’s been assigned to halls D, E, and F.” He turned and glared up at Ferguson. “What are you playing at exactly? Some of us have actual work to do today and don’t have time to babysit!”

“Don’t be like that Markus, we’re just going to shadow for a few hours so Jacob here can get his feet wet. You’ll hardly know we’re here.” Ferguson retorted, also a clearly practiced response. “Never hurts to let them get some energy out either you know.”

“He’s injured his ankle you buffoon!” Markus snarled and thrust the chart from the door at Fergusons chest. “The last thing he should be doing is putting on unnecessary performances! You always do this Ferguson, you march in, take charge, and skim the paperwork like an illiterate! This is not your damned boot camp and you are not at liberty to strut around and commandeer resources and time!”

“Okay, okay, now wait, hold on a minute and calm your tits-”

“I don’t have tits!”

“This happens about once a week.” Samson side mouthed to Jacob. “It always goes about the same way. Markus takes everything a touch too seriously poor man. And he is also very upset at their height difference. He won’t admit it, but it’s hardly a secret.”

Jacob didn’t know what to think, let alone say. “Once a week..?” He managed.

“At least.” Samson confirmed. “Twice or more if Markus has been having trouble reaching basic amenities.” His smile was all teeth. “Towels, toothbrushes, doorknobs...”

Jacob wished Ferguson and Markus would wrap it up but in the meantime he at least knew how to play the ribbing game. “You enjoy making short jokes?”

“More than he enjoys being short.” Samson quipped. “It’s low hanging fruit I know, but that’s why it suits him so well.”

“I think if you gave him the chance to rise to the situation he might surprise you.” Jacob rejoined. “At any rate aren’t jokes like that beneath you?”

“They are but I’ve gotten used to looking down!” Samson grinned. “It’s a shame you’re working with the restricted halls, I think we may have enjoyed your company here. Once you settle in I doubt you’ll have time for visits any more than Fergus.”

“Do you have any advice? For the Studs in the back halls?” A loud outburst from Markus pulled at Jacob’s attention but he didn’t look. Samson had moved so that they were facing each other and he stood between Jacob and the other handlers. He couldn’t shift his attention now. “Anything that a person new to the stable has tripped over before?” He watched those yellow eyes and noted the thinning of his pupils. “I’m sure you know, probably better than Ferguson.”

The tone had shifted between them somehow. Jacob wanted nothing more than to move back but his feet were planted from muscle memory, retreating from a stud was never safe. He wouldn’t outrun him, he wouldn’t outlast him, and he had no deterrents on hand to protect him. Once again Jacob lowered his gaze enough to prevent a drawn out stare down. He had to trust in his training, in the monitor team, and in the two other handlers in the hall as Samson straitened and loomed above him surprisingly well. “Samson?”

Samson remained silent but responded with a sudden lurch forward as he grabbed for Jacob’s chin. Jacob stepped back quickly and lifted his arm between them to block access to his neck, winced as Samson seized his arm with a grasp like steel. He had to respond, now, hesitate and die. Hesitate and become a statistic. Jacob yelled as he pushed forward into the grab and swung his arm out with the full power of his shoulder behind it.

Samson staggered back surprised. That stagger splayed his feet and by the grace of providence placed sudden weight on the stud’s bad ankle. He gave a loud hiss and swayed dangerously, almost went down, but saved himself by grabbing the wall.

“Shit!” Markus was beside the stud in a moment. “Lean on me dammit, Ferguson help me! Get your weight off that ankle! Ferguson if this has worsened you’re taking the heat for it!”

“I’ve got you Samson.” Ferguson was also at the scene in a moment and had much better height for it. He braced Samson as the stud straightened and leaned into his shoulder. “I wasn’t asking you to go all out you know. That wasn’t the best idea especially with that foot situation.”

“Stop fussing, both of you!” Samson scoffed. “It was completely my fault and I’m fine. I’m sore, not twisted and hardly broken.” He looked as though he’d have waved them both away except that they were clearly holding him up. “Give me a moment both of you so I can apologize to our new friend.” He turned his attention back to Jacob. The casual way the stud regarded the new keeper made it seem almost as if the proceeding incident hadn’t happened. He showed no signs himself of any adrenal carryover, his pupils had rounded and his breaths were quiet. It was jarring “I am sorry I frightened you Jacob, and that I grabbed you of course. You may want to put some ice on that. But that was the fastest way to answer your question.”

(What the hell was that..?) Jacob was still trembling with adrenaline and looked between the three men rapidly. He fought down a dozen equally terrible retorts, forced himself to still, counted his breaths. That had been a test? Had he asked for a test? No he hadn’t damn them, he wasn’t crazy! Only one response was appropriate but any forgiving would be disingenuous at best and he wasn’t even sure he could speak yet. He’d be relieved in a moment, he knew that, but now that he wasn’t fighting for life he was pretty pissed off.

“The worst thing I’ve ever seen new blood do is fail to fight back.” Samson offered softly. “Weakness kills, Jacob. My sire and the others can smell it, they will test your mettle and if you fail that test well…” He shrugged, “you can imagine what may follow. I’m not recommending you pick a fight of course but you have to appear that you won’t shirk if push comes to shove.”

“I did tell you that Samson was good to little greenies didn’t I?” Ferguson was anything but apologetic himself. “Sometimes you have to trust your teammates more than the mood of the moment. If you’d held ground and done nothing more you would have been fine. Sometimes doing nothing is the hardest thing, and the best show of strength. If you’d pulled that stunt with some of our studs they’d have torn your arm from its socket.”

“Why don’t we have any protections!?” Jacob bit back. “We’re at an incredible disadvantage as it is!”

“You’re right, we are.” Ferguson nodded. “Completely outclassed. Even with a bum ankle Samson here could have laid you out and then some. And he’s a lover not a fighter.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” Samson sighed. “The heart is willing but the flesh is weak!”

“Don’t start.” Markus muttered. “There isn’t enough room in the hive for all your cheese.”

“The point newbie,” Ferguson spoke over them, “Is that this stable isn’t the one that trained you. We’re in a league of our own. The protective gear you were taught with won’t work with origin studs. They would shrug off the shock and follow that up by ripping out your guts for garter laces, bad for everyone. So we operate on an honors system because there is no other way. And it works, because the boys you’ll meet are mostly here by choice. All of that will make more sense once you’ve seen them and settled in.” Ferguson sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to set you up for a fright, I knew you were nervous and this was supposed to be a quiet thing. But I guess if nothing else it’s a damn good example of how quickly the situation can change. Don’t take it personally, ya? Treat it as a learning experience.”

He probably would have said more but by that point surveillance had relayed the events in the hall to medical and the group was joined by a doctor and his support nurse who took control of the situation. Samson was moved back into his stall and examined, shortly after this Markus was sent to retrieve equipment when they deemed Samson wasn’t fit to walk between the rooms without additional support. As Markus cursed and Samson played up his injury for the sympathy of the nurse, the first woman Jacob had seen working this floor, Ferguson pulled him aside and out of the way. The stall itself wasn’t big enough for a shadowing experience and after their antics the doctor made it clear that Samson needed less stimulation.

Word must also have been sent to Felicia, the person intended to handle Jacob’s book based initiation, because Ferguson was paged and instructed to bring Jacob back to one of the educational conference rooms. There was a woman waiting for them there who’s ID read Felicia, strangely just Felicia, and she glared at the pair of them from above steeple pressed fingers.  
  


“I hope you’re proud of yourself.” She started in fast and mad. “I’ve half a mind to report you to the overseer myself for that stunt Fergus. You’ve made a hell of a lot of work for Markus who’s already running behind because of Dagor, you’ve laid up Samson who’s entirely too patient with you, and you’ve pushed a new handler right into the fireline! Mr. Shovelthand wasn’t scheduled for direct contact any earlier than Thursday!” She slammed her hand down on the table in emphasis and it shook, actually shook, beneath her palm. “I suppose this is what I get for allowing you to start without me speaking with him first. Dammit man don’t you have anything to say?!”

“You look stunning today.” Ferguson replied. “White standard uniform looks good on you.”

His smile was a touch to wide and the stunning dragged a touch too long. Jacob wondered if perhaps Ferguson and Felicia were better acquainted than simply as coworkers. He wondered if he could not wonder about it because it was none of his business. He also wondered, disturbingly, if Felicia was strong enough to lift and throw that table because it looked like she was considering it.

“Damn it Fergus…” Felicia snarled, “This isn’t funny. You put Mr. Shovelthand in a position where he had to protect himself and Samson’s ankle has turned from a sprain into a fracture. He was scheduled to initiate an entire group of studless. Now he’s good for nothing but passive harvest until that ankle mends and his duties will need to be reassigned. In August!”

“Some of that was already bound to happen. He’d never handle an entire group on a sprain and you knew that.” Ferguson pulled up a chair, motioned for Jacob to do the same. “I’m sorry he’s hurt, I really am. You know Samson’s a favorite of mine. But it was an honest to god accident Felicia. We didn’t plan anything, he just got overly enthusiastic, and you know I wouldn’t prompt him. I’ll pull doubles if need be to help space things out and get the crush over and done.”

“I think you’ll have very little choice.” Her tone was curt. “Which means others will have to step up to carry your weight as well and that will mean…” She sighed, leaned back away from the table and looked at Jacob for the first time since he entered the room. “That means we will have to move ahead quickly with your updated training and documentation. I apologize on behalf of the hive for the manner in which today went, and the hoops you’ll soon be asked to jump. Whatever I can do to have you ready when you hit the floor I will but it’s going to be more of a sprint now than a marathon. I haven’t even introduced myself yet have I?” She rose, came around the side of the table in a graceful sweep and held out a hand. “My name is Felicia and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Shovelthand.”

“Please call me Jacob.” He took her hand and shook it; it was strong and oddly cool. “I appreciate your help and I will do my best to live up to expectations. I’m afraid I haven’t put my best foot forward today. I am… I am so very sorry about Samson.” Felicia was not a handler, which likely meant she was a supervisor, a doctor, or a biologist. All of whom outranked him by default. And if she felt that he was responsible for injuring a valuable first generation stud on his first day… he couldn’t imagine what might happen. At best his career could come to a crashing end, at worst…

“Jacob it is then. You don’t need to apologize to me. You did exactly what would have been expected in the situation you were placed in with Samson and you executed that maneuver quite well honestly. It’s unfortunate that it aggravated Samson’s injury but that was through no fault of your own.” She looked at Ferguson, sighed again. “I will handle this from here. You need to get on the floor and make yourself useful so I can try to forget how very angry I am right now. Double time soldier.”

“Yes mam!” Ferguson saluted, all but clicking his heels. He moved to the door but stopped in the frame, looked back. “You pay attention here Jacob, Felicia will set you straight. Even if I did already do half the job for her.” He winked, turned through the arch and the electric doors slid shut before Felicia’s confused ‘what?!’ likely reached him.

“Did half my job?! He’s done nothing but make more work for me!” She griped. “Insufferable, irritating… ugh. Well… moving right along.” Felicia moved back to her chair and sat, motioned for Jacob to do the same. “He’s gone to try and fix his mess and I’m here to go through maps, manuals, and background data. I can only imagine that you may have questions.”

“A few.” Jacob replied, impressed by how calmly that came out.

“Just a few?” She smiled, which became her. She had a sculpturesque face, well-proportioned but imperialistic. The smile softened her, brought warmth into her cheeks and light to her dark brown eyes. “Don’t be shy Jacob, this is your chance to ask whatever you want to ask. This is a very different environment than the one you left behind in the city and that detail has not escaped us. My job is to assist in your transition so that you can integrate into the hive seamlessly.”

Ferguson’s confidence had been reassuring but Felicia’s calm and clinical manner was more welcome by far. It reminded Jacob of his professors. This was an interaction he could manage without being blindsided, attacked, or looking like a student playing handler. (Thank god for men and women of reason.) He took a moment to gather his thoughts and in so doing observe the austere space he occupied. This was another large room with white walls, grey floors, and large overhead lights that were almost piercingly bright. No excessive furniture, no mess, just the conference table and its chairs, a projector in the ceiling and a screen on the wall, and one massive window looking down with so many others onto the descending floors of the hive. He had so much to ask, so much that needed clarification, so many concerns… but it all had to start somewhere, and the most important question by far was… ”What is it that I’m going to be working with. Who makes up generation 0.”

“Well,” Felicia leaned back in her seat and took a long breath. “I suppose that is as good a place as any to start.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is somewhat inspired by Fallout and other post apocalyptic games and stories. I can't say exactly why I wanted to write this except to explore dystopian ideas of society structuring with actual monsters. It's sort of like Cabin in the Woods meets The Giver in that a deal with the old gods has been made to protect humanity but it requires carefully regulated government control, people following their roles, and an element of human sacrifice to maintain. Dehumanizing people and elevating other beings is not optional if humanity is to survive this world, how this process may be normalized and rationalized is what interests me. This is not going to be well researched. This isn't a study. This is a brain worm that I'm following to see where it goes. I am borrowing from numerous media sources and stringing things together to suit my purposes. Look not for accuracy here!  
> And please feel free to leave comments or kudos, big or small, suggestion or observation, it is encouraging to know that people are interested in what I'm doing here. And while I know writing should come from the heart or something to that effect It is really nice to know how people feel about a work! Thank you and happy strange and, if I do this right, unsettling reading.


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